The heavy silence of her study was a familiar torment to Duchess Sylvia. Sunlight, weak and autumnal, streamed through the tall arched window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, like tiny, indifferent stars in the galaxy of her grief. She stood before the expanse of glass, her gaze lost on the distant, manicured gardens of her estate, but her mind was far away, years in the past. The chill of the windowpane seeped through her silken sleeve, a sensation that prised open a memory, vivid and bittersweet.
"Ugh, Master Aleron, must we go over the lineage of the Kings of Eldoria again?" a small, petulant voice had whined. Little Valerie, barely seven, her midnight hair tied back with a simple ribbon, had abandoned her slate and pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the very same study window. "It's so dreadfully dull! And my head aches from all these names!"
Sylvia, a year older and already more composed, had looked up from her own meticulous notes. "Valerie, he's only trying to teach us. It's important."
Master Aleron, a patient man with a perpetually weary sigh, adjusted his spectacles. "Indeed, Lady Sylvia. Princess Valerie, understanding our history is vital for… well, for a future ruler."
"But it's not fair!" Valerie pouted, her reflection a small, determined blur on the window. "Sylvia understands it all so quickly! Why can't she just tell me afterwards?" She turned, her ruby eyes, even then uniquely captivating, fixed on her companion. "Please, Syl? You always explain it better."
Sylvia felt a familiar warmth spread through her. "Alright, Valerie," she said softly. "Master Aleron, if you'll instruct me thoroughly, I can… assist Princess Valerie with her review later."
Master Aleron's shoulders sagged slightly with relief. "A most commendable offer, Lady Sylvia. Very well. Let us proceed with the trade agreements of King Theron the Just…"
For the next hour, Sylvia bore the brunt of the lesson, absorbing dates and decrees, while Valerie sat quietly, occasionally peeking out the window or doodling on her slate. When Master Aleron finally gathered his scrolls, offering a grateful nod to Sylvia, and departed, Valerie bounded over to her.
"Oh, Syl, you're simply wonderful!" she declared, beaming. "Truly! When I'm Queen, I'm going to marry you!"
Sylvia, caught off guard, blinked. "Marry me, Valerie?"
"Yes!" Valerie affirmed, her small hands finding Sylvia's. "Then you can always be by my side, and help me with all the boring Queen things, and we can rule together! Won't that be splendid?"
Sylvia's young heart had fluttered. "Yes, Valerie," she'd whispered, her own small hand tightening its grip. "That would be splendid."
A sigh, heavy as the ten stolen years that weighed upon her bones, escaped Sylvia's lips. She touched the cool glass, a faint echo of Valerie's childhood gesture.
"Splendid," she murmured to the empty room. "You likely don't even remember saying it, my love. Just childish prattle, forgotten with the next game of chase in the gardens."
She turned from the window, pacing the length of the study, the subtle ache in her limbs a constant reminder of the demon's price. "Even then," she confessed to the silent tapestries, "I don't think I truly understood what it meant. Marriage. I suppose I thought of it as an alliance. The best way to support you, to stand with you against the vipers of the court. The most steadfast strategy." Her lips twisted into a wry, painful smile. "How little I knew of my own heart."
Taking a steadying breath, she moved to the small bell-pull beside her desk and gave it a firm tug. A few moments later, a polite knock sounded at the study door.
"Enter," Sylvia called, her voice attempting a composure she didn't feel.
Her elderly butler, Thomas, entered, his expression professionally placid, though his eyes held a hint of concern for his Duchess's visible strain. "You rang, Your Grace?"
"Yes, Thomas, thank you for coming so promptly," Sylvia said, trying to smooth the weariness from her tone. "Tell me… has anyone visited today? Anyone at all looking for me?" Her gaze was intent, a desperate hope flickering within it.
Thomas pursed his lips slightly. "No, Your Grace. The usual messengers with estate matters, a note from Lord Ashworth's steward regarding new tariffs, but no personal callers seeking an audience with you directly."
Sylvia's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. "I see." She moved back towards the window, her fingers tracing the cold glass. "Thomas," she said, her voice low but firm, "I want to be informed immediately if anyone, and I mean anyone, comes to this estate asking for me. Regardless of their station, their appearance, their stated business. Whether they are noble or common, clean or covered in grime, coherent or otherwise. If they ask for Duchess Sylvia, you are to bring them to me without delay. Is that understood?"
Thomas blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his usually unflappable features. "Perfectly, Your Grace. No matter their class or status, you wish to be informed."
"Precisely," Sylvia affirmed. "Thank you, Thomas. That will be all."
The butler bowed and retreated, closing the door softly behind him.
As Thomas walked down the quiet, echoing corridor, his brow furrowed in thought. 'Anyone, no matter their class or status,' he mused, the Duchess's urgent tone still ringing in his ears. It was a most unusual request, even for a Duchess grieving her closest friend. He had served House Lorne for decades, and Duchess Sylvia, for all her strength, had always maintained a certain propriety regarding visitors. This felt different. Desperate, almost.
He had noticed the change in her these past weeks, since the tragic news of Queen Valerie's death. Her Grace looked perpetually weary, the vibrant energy that had always defined her now muted, replaced by a shadow that clung to her like a second skin. He knew she had been absent from all court meetings convened by the new King, Ainsworth. This was a dangerous absence, some whispered, one that could draw unwelcome attention.
Thomas worried deeply that such deliberate avoidance might affect her standing, perhaps even her safety. Even so, her current demeanor, this fervent instruction about any potential visitor, suggested her mind was preoccupied with something far more personal, something that felt even more important to her than navigating the treacherous currents of Ainsworth's new reign. It was as if she wasn't just mourning, but actively, desperately, waiting for someone.
Alone once more, Sylvia pressed her forehead against the cool windowpane, just as young Valerie had done all those years ago. The physical sensation was a strange comfort, a tether to a past that felt both impossibly distant and achingly near.
"Oh, Valerie," she whispered, her breath misting the glass. "If you are out there, if Clara's desperate magic truly worked… why haven't you come? Why aren't you rushing to my side, to Clara's?"
A cold knot of fear tightened in her chest. "Are you alright, my love? Are you hurt? Lost? Or…" The most terrible thought, one she tried to push away daily, surfaced again. "Or do you not wish to come back? Is the memory of what happened, of what he did, too much to bear?"
The silence of the grand estate felt mocking. "I remember," she breathed, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I remember every word, every promise, every shared dream, even the ones we made as children, thinking we understood the world."
She closed her eyes, the cool glass a balm against her heated skin. "I'm still waiting, Valerie. I'm still your Sylvia." Her whisper was almost lost against the pane. "And I would still marry you in a heartbeat, my Queen… my love."